[ open ] had a drink about an hour ago and it's gone straight to my head

[glumshoe]

Who: Will Graham (notyourteacup) and YOU!
Where: The fifth floor bar, Will's room (floor 1, room 9), and anywhere that is a straight line between those two points.
When: backdated to around Feb 25th and running onward
Rating: PG-13 (drinking, rumination on death by a guy that just died...)
Summary: Things got bad, and then things got worse, and then public intoxication seemed like a good idea?
The Story:


To The Bar And Back.

[ Doing what's easy didn't come easy, but Will's sure managing it. Days (Will could not tell how many, he didn't want to know how many, and every time an ember of the thought entered his brain it was doused with more drink, yet more fuel for the house to keep burning down) after, he'd gotten over feeling conflicted about being sorry for himself. Embracing the true fatalistic streak inside him was as much about coping as rejecting everything that led to this point, a constant state of forces canceling each other out. It'd never been anything but a Sisyphian task from the outset. Will's hand at playing puppet master got necks wound in the ropes, the weight of collateral substantial enough to hang Will from it. Justifiably.

If death is the final frontier, Will is a man without land left to map. It's a hateful stillness in him, in thrall to the void and having seen but not remembered it crawling in through the eyes, settling into the hollow spaces behind them, bigger spaces than before. Grown past the boundary of just his imagination because he pushed the boundaries, he birthed the Will Graham that Hannibal wanted to see and shouldn't have expected the hungering dark to leave. Didn't expect to live at all. Except Wonderland. Of course.

He never had drunk in public before or done much of anything outside the confines of his space, wanting to be beholden to none. But he does, and he doesn't even have the decency to be a fun drunk. Just sullen, silent, filling the dizzying absence surrounding with order after order of whiskey and stumbling outside when the bartender gets to looking too sad in his direction. He'd scrub his eyes, a dim shine peeking out of the shadowed hollows where they should be, and trudge back downstairs to make token gestures toward eating (bread, toast if he's feeling fancy and when does he at all) while the dogs stir.

The newest edition to their number is somehow the most attentive, and while Daisy and Callum snuffle and whine and ultimately let themselves be driven back off the bed, Cinnamon isn't so easily deterred. Much like the looksake he must have been all but psychically screaming his anguish over when the spaniel wandered out of the closet door, left ajar, and refused to leave his side.

Nights (Will could not tell how many, he didn't want to know how many) were spent alongside her, filling a hole Will dug and threw Evelyn's body into. ]

[ closed to Zed Martin ] The Mix-up.

[ Sometimes (Will could tell this is the only time), the path skews without his knowledge, sobriety not required. The door should have been locked. If there were signs that were supposed to redirect him to his room that night, he lost them in a bottle, shoving inside room 3 and forgetting to be confused when a litter of pups don't meet him. He doesn't want the company tonight, or any. ]

Comments

[clairsentient]

[On the best of nights, her dreams are tumultuous at best. She dreams of her childhood (terrible), the death of one of the two men in the world that she cares about (those dreams change, depending on the day), and of what strange things might come of this place. She shifts in her slumber at the sound of the door opening, rolls over to face the crack of light that floods inside. Her voice is hushed, soft.]

...John?

[She's too tired to think it could be someone else. By the time she's rolling to to her feet, dressed in her long t-shirt, she's awake enough to think she has reason to be cautious.

Still, the room is small. By the time she's standing, with the light dim as it would be if he started to close the door again, she feels mostly blind.

She reaches a hand up, out toward the mysterious figure.

God help them all if she brushes against him skin-to-skin. Have you ever seen a woman drop into a full-body self-loathing puddle?]

[onlyhomemade]

[Gabriel has been sitting across the way for some time, observing Will as he sullenly throws back drink after drink. It seems there have been quite a few in Wonderland afflicted with some sort of depression, not that he can blame them. He hadn't seen Will at the bar before, so he has to wonder if this is meant as a means of reaching out in a way. Whether the man knows it himself or not.

He's already been dealing with a heartbroken drunk, what's another to the list? Besides befriending Neds friends is helpful for his strategy.

He slips from his seat, motioning to the bar tender for another. He sits next to Will. The tender sets down another glass, something a little more high quality than what Will is currently drinking. Gabriel gently pushes it to him as a peace offering.]

I know we don't know each other very well, but... if you wish to talk, I'll listen. Who better than an Archangel?

[He's unafraid to admit what he is, whether Will believes it at first or not. It at least gives the man something else to focus on if he doesn't want to talk about himself.]

[wordvomit]

[The Pie Maker, who avoids conflict but attempts to keep up with the comings and goings of residents, the news that makes its way across the network, saw the librarian's announcement. He saw hurt and, knowing what he knows about Hannibal Lecter, found it indescribably curious that she neglected to mention Will Graham in any capacity.

Of course, being an amateur homicide investigator with a penchant for wanting to get to the root of things he could only assume some manner of falling-out, the woman not unkindly sending hordes of inquirers after Will Graham and taking them on herself. But why? Will was more than tangentially related - it was Will who verified his assumptions, who told the Pie Maker that Hannibal Lecter was capable of preposterously complicated murders.

It was Will who Ned saw wandering past the first-floor kitchen about a week after Evelyn O'Connell's declaration, looking as though he had been hit by a freighter truck which then backed up over him once more for good measure.]

Hey-

[Stepping past the threshold and into the hall, drawn by dragging footsteps, Ned rubs floured hands off on his apron and feels something split in his chest when he reaches out to do something he rarely does for anyone: he touches.

Gently, on the shoulder, just to get Will's attention.]

Come in.